


& what art

by Emmar



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmar/pseuds/Emmar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You love them, all three, so fiercely that sometimes it hurts, and it’s difficult to fathom just how perfectly they’ve fit into your home, into your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	& what art

You love them, all three, so fiercely that sometimes it hurts, and it’s difficult to fathom just how perfectly they’ve fit into your home, into your _life_. But they have; Will, still sometimes skittish around you, as if you’re a dream that will disappear if he reaches out to touch you; James, who has settled into a place as your friend in a way that would never have been possible before, though there’s a sadness in him as he watches you, sometimes; Jack, who treats you as neither untouchable dream nor untouchable lost love nor anything in between, simply yourself, and shares an easy kind of affection that you know Will and James both had trouble adjusting to.  
  
You spend long evenings watching them, watching the way Will blindly sails into conversational undertows that puts one or both of the others on edge and the way Jack, or more frequently, James, steer him out again and then sit quietly to stare into the fire a while, expression hunted. The way James still twitches a hand towards his pistol at the sound of the window opening, relaxing only at the unmistakable jingling of Jack’s trinkets as he clambers over the sill. The way Jack never takes his eyes off of James, until James looks in his direction, when he always has a sudden, intense interest in something else.  
  
There comes an evening when all four of you experience something of a paradigm shift, when James barely lets the door shut behind him before he’s tearing at his cravat, fumbling to be out of, at least, the physical trappings of his life outside these four walls, when he says without turning as Jack lands softly on the rug, “Not tonight, Sparrow,” and James hasn’t called him that in so long that you have to strain to remember it, and Will gets up without speaking to fetch a bottle of brandy and four glasses, and you cross to James and take hold of his still-moving hands in your own even as Jack shepherds you towards one of the sofas.  
  
“Sit,” you tells James, and it’s a testament to his state of mind that he does so without argument, lets you and Jack divest him of his wig and his coat and his boots and his waistcoat, only moves again when Will holds out a glass of brandy.  
  
“My apologies,” James says quietly, looking not at any of you but down into his glass, and Jack snorts and flops inelegantly onto the sofa beside him.  
“I’ve no idea what you mean, Jamie lad.”  
  
There’s silence for a long moment, as you all crowd into James’ space (and what a sight the four of you would make, heavy crystal glasses in hand) and then he finally says, “I don’t suppose you need a new first mate, do you, Jack?”  
  
Jack grins, sly, but says, “Anamaria has unfortunately yet to find any ship to her liking, mate.”  
“Just as well, I suppose,” James admits, smiling a little, now. “I imagine poor Mr Gibbs would have a fit if I were to board the Pearl.”  
“Undoubtedly.”  
  
There’s more conversation, after that, light and unimportant and none of you step anywhere near to asking James what put him in such a mood. Even Will manages not to put his foot in his mouth, for once, and the brandy keeps flowing.  
  
You’re the first to wake up the next morning, and you notice almost immediately that there is a heavier weight than Will’s pinning you down. When you open your eyes, it’s rather immediately obvious by the golden skin that it’s Jack laying across your middle, still sound asleep, if the snoring is any indication. Will is curled up on his side on your right, his customary drunk sleeping position, and James is on your left, legs tangled with Jack’s and hand resting beside your shoulder. (You’ve often wondered just how many people your enormous bed could fit. The answer, it seems, is a comfortable four.)  
  
You lay there for a long moment, content to soak up this moment, and then there’s a shuffle of skin on linen beside you, and James claps a hand over his eyes with a pained noise, then rolls over and attempts to burrow under a pillow. “Oh, God,” he groans, “stop breathing so loudly, _please_.” You can’t help but laugh, because while he holds his alcohol the best of all of you, well, he did have rather a lot of brandy.  
  
“Elizabeth, _please_ ,” he mumbles, and you laugh again, more quietly this time, and lay a hand on his bare back, just between his shoulder blades.  
“You know, James, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you could do some of those things sober, let alone as drunk as you were.”  
“What have I done to deserve this?” he wails, quietly, head still buried under a pillow.  
“Dunno, mate,” Jack chips in, chin propped up on your ribs, “but Bess, I’m with him, be a little more quiet, would you?”  
“Hmm,” you say, “I don’t know. Maybe I should let you suffer some more.”  
“I think we’ve suffered enough, don’t you?” Will asks in a rough whisper, arm slung over his face in a way that manages to cover both one ear and his eyes. You laugh a third time, then gently untangle yourself and promise to bring water when you come back.  
  
Nothing much actually changes, after that, strange as it seems; but James spends fewer and fewer nights in his own bed, alone in that huge house, and Jack doesn’t sneak out until just before dawn. The bed is much more comfortable with four.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first piece of writing since the end of November, and my first piece of fanfiction in... much, much longer. It was written in the early hours of the morning and posted straight after, so any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own.
> 
> Title from William Blake's The Tyger.


End file.
